


The Devil Has My Ear Today

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Attempt at Humor, Complicated Relationships, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Lance (Voltron)-centric, M/M, Mission Fic, More Men In Black Than Canon Invasion Though, This Whole Thing Is The Secret Brainchild of MIB and Mission Impossible, idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: A short story about a shunned alien prince down on his luck and the spy who loved him, about a stolen Altean crystal, and about how a career in intelligence both is and isn't quite as exciting as everyone suspects.





	The Devil Has My Ear Today

**Author's Note:**

> Written like, uh, a year ago for the Timelines AU Zine. The original plan was an AU inspired by Atomic Blonde, but that's not quite what came out. So, yeah. Whatever. I'm actually rather fond of this one, so hey, give it a read maybe? XD 
> 
> Beta-read by beta-lactamase and lustyjustice. Thank you both!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Weak And Powerless" by A Perfect Circle.

When Lance was a boy of about twelve years, easily influenced and in possession of a spinning imagination, his aunt gave him a spy novel for his birthday. He inhaled the book in the span of maybe forty-eight hours, the quickest he'd ever finished a book by far, and young Lance decided then and there that this was what he wanted to do when he grew up. He had enough foresight and common sense, even at that age, to not inform his parents, or anyone else really, of that choice, but he stood by it. Asked what he wanted to do for a living, he settled for the next best thing, the more solid choice: he wanted to be a policeman. For a while he considered running off to the military instead, another career plan that he imagined might be useful for eventually getting recruited into an exciting career in the intelligence field, but that simply didn't seem like a good fit. 

Long story short, Lance eventually became a spy. He applied for that job, off a pamphlet at the police academy. He interviewed for it. He got a contract and health insurance and benefits. And eventually he realized that the exciting, Bond-worthy moments in the work he had dreamed of since he was twelve are few and far between. For the most part, being a spy means two things: waiting and observing. 

Though that's not to say that it's _never_ exciting. 

 

***

 

Lance is gripping the door handle so hard his hand has started to ache, and some sort of survival instinct – or maybe the opposite, something extra reckless – is telling him to close his eyes and stop watching the streets fly by at breakneck speed. He's also grinning from ear to ear, despite the fact that Keith's making way too much use of the experiences he gained as a fighter jet pilot in another life, and has decided to re-apply them to car chases. 

That might indeed be one of Lance's favorite things about his partner. 

The van in front of them suddenly takes a turn into a back alley, and Keith yanks the steering wheel of their car around as well, which causes them to swerve, tires screeching, passing other cars unseen due to their activated stealth mode. Lance squeals in delight. Then he remembers that he's still got a job to do, pulls the GPS tracking up on his phone and synchronizes it with the map of the city. 

“What the fuck do they want at the Metropolitan Hotel?” he asks, squinting at the data. But that's where they're headed, most likely. The alley ends directly at the delivery entrance to the hotel. There's nothing else of interest here. 

“Maybe they're really enthusiastic about the steam showers?” Keith glances towards him, smirking at his own joke, and Lance points at the windshield. 

“Look at where we're going,” he demands, because he might enjoy these chases but he's not suicidal, thank you very much. “You're gonna drive us into a wall at 120 mph, you damn lunatic!” 

Keith frowns, but does revert his attention back up front. “Fine, fine. My guess is that they're trying to make a meeting, an exchange or something. If they were in it to steal something, they'd be a whole lot more subtle.” 

“Hmm.” Lance hums. That makes sense, and if Keith's right then chasing them there and confronting them before they enter the building might not be the smartest move. “Slow down.” 

Keith shoots him another look, confused for a second. Then he seems to catch up and takes the foot off the gas. “You want to let them make the exchange, then see what's what.”

It's not a question. Lance nods anyway. “Yeah. Fat chance they're gonna tell us what the plan was if we capture them, right? So we watch, take them all in after the deed's done.” 

“True.” Keith turns the car around and, once they're out of the alley, hits the switch on the dashboard that pulls it in and out of stealth mode. Visible again, he merges into the busy city traffic in the direction of the hotel's front entrance. Lance landed a tracker on not one but two of the group members earlier, so the risk of losing them entirely is minimal. He follows the dots on the tracking device as they jog through the hotel and leaves the yelling and badge flashing to Keith. 

They catch up with the group in time to watch them unload several small wooden boxes. There's no telling what's in them yet, but that question might get an answer soon. A second van pulls up. Several large, masked men file out. One of the first group marches up to them, extending a hand. 

He's shot on the spot. 

The other members of his group scramble, the kind of nervous flurry that happens when a shark splashes into a school of herrings. None of them try to take any of the goods – apparently they're not getting paid enough to risk their lives. The new arrivals tear through the loot, carelessly discarding box after box until they seem to find what they're looking for. 

Lance uses the zoom on his phone to find out just what it was, seeing out of the corner of his eyes that Keith had the same idea. And well, shit. This case just took a whole new turn. 

That's an Altean crystal. One of the last handful in existence, valuable beyond measure, and not supposed to be anywhere _near_ Earth. And now that he knows that, he's seeing the large men in a whole new light too –

“Shit,” says Keith. “The Galra are at it again.” 

 

*** 

 

Ah yes, the invasion. See, a few years before Lance was born, unbeknownst to his family and most of the general population at the time, another event took place that would determine his later career path. 

Aliens invaded the planet. Although _invasion_ seems like too dramatic a term. The situation, as such, is much more reminiscent of the Cold War than Independence Day, and mankind isn't even a party in that war – Earth is merely one of the many stages on which it is fought, made interesting for both the Alteans and the Galra by its position: smack in the middle distance between both their home worlds. Things got heated for a month or two, when the Galra leveled an army outpost in the Nevada desert, sort of by accidents, but the authorities proved much more apt in handling the situation than, say, back when everyone's grandparents and great grandparents quivered in front of their tube TVs over the Cuba crisis. Treaties and agreements were signed and an oversight agency was created to keep an eye on whether both Alteans and Galra stay in line, and the public remained none the wiser. 

Said agency is, creatively, called Oversight. And yes, you guessed it, that's where Lance is working these days. 

 

***

 

Iverson hasn't said anything in a full minute. He's just glaring at them, constantly looking from one to the other, quietly communicating his disappointment. 

When he finally clears his throat and slumps back in his desk chair, it's with the most exaggerated, long-suffering sigh Lance has ever heard. No one would ever dare say it out loud, but their commander can be just a tad overdramatic. 

“You lost an Altean crystal,” he summarizes. “To the Galra.” 

Well, technically, but... Lance leans forward, touching the edge of the old oak desk. “With all due respect, Sir, we were running on incomplete intel. We didn't even know what exactly we've been chasing, nor did we have any idea that the Galra were involved at all.”

“You can't expect the two of us to take down an entire Galran strike team on the fly,” Keith adds. “We didn't even have the good stun guns. No one was expecting their involvement.” 

Iverson sighs again, although with a little less flair. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Now that you know, can I trust you to get it back?” 

Both of them nod enthusiastically. All is not lost – the Galra don't usually keep those crystals, don't have much use for them. Their goal is to make sure the Alteans don't get them, and they sell them to the furthest corners of the galaxy to achieve that. 

“You better,” Iverson says, toneless, and dismisses them with a wave of his hand. 

Keith manages to sit on his hands, metaphorically, until they step into the elevator that will bring them down to their small basement office – which doesn't sound like much, but given how half of Oversight operates out of a hive of cubicles, it's practically a promotion. 

“Please tell me”, he says, “that you don't plan on involving the mongrel.” 

There's this thing with Keith where he says one thing and means the exact opposite, and masking a suggestion as a complaint is just part of way he communicates. Their work relationship improved _a lot_ once Lance figured that one out. “Hadn't thought about it yet, but, he might be able to help.” 

Keith pushes the button for their floor and the elevator doors ping closed. He glares at Lance, which translates to an agreement or a thank you in Kogane-speak, depending on the situation, and therefore Lance grins back at him and starts humming along to the elevator music just to piss him off and reestablish their usual baseline of carefully calculated disdain. 

 

***

 

Every war comes with collateral damage. In some cases, that's war-torn cities and battlefields soaked with blood. In some other cases, it's the hybrid prince that was born out of wedlock to a Galran king and the royal Altean scientist he wasn't allowed to marry after the war began. In another time line, Lotor would have been the heir to an empire larger than anything the human mind can comprehend, but in this one, he's shunned, an outcast, fluttering back and forth between impartial planets like Earth and trying to carve out a life for himself. Sort of in hiding, sort of not, because, while Lotor inherited the smart and calculating minds of both his parents, his extravagant and loud personality isn't very conducive to staying under the radar. 

Lance made his acquaintance on the very first job he worked for Oversight. He's been cursing and lauding that day in equal measure ever since then. 

 

***

 

Like most things alien here on Earth, the Starlight Bar is hidden in the crevices just beyond the world most regular humans are aware of. On the surface, it's a small independent cinema that plays shit like French movies from the Sixties and Seventies or Indian musicals. For the knowing, there's a third door between the restrooms, labeled _employees only_ , and behind that lies one of the most popular alien watering holes in New York City. 

Because of its clientele, the Starlight Bar is open, and busy, all day long. Most of its staff have small apartments out back and spend most of their lives either at home or at work. Oversight has had a few things to say about that in the past, but the federal government has a hard enough time implementing and monitoring labor laws for its legitimate, human citizens. All attempts to achieve the same for its alien population have disastrously failed. 

For Lance, however, that's an upside, because it gives him a good guess as to where he might find his most illustrious informant at any given time. And sure enough, when he struts towards the bar, there Lotor is, wearing a thin, long robe that glitters in the strobe lights and that, as Lance realizes, gulping, is almost entirely see-through. He sits at the bar nursing something that looks like whiskey, although it's hard to tell exactly in the dim light, the room mostly illuminated by whatever display's currently up on stage and the strobe lights that go with some of the performances. 

“Hey,” Lance says as he situates himself on a bar stool next to him. He has yet to figure out what exactly Lotor's job here _is_ , since he doesn't work behind the bar and Lance has never seen him on stage, but he has long since had the sneaking suspicion that Lotor is merely here to be a curiosity. A defeated lion, presented in a gilded cage for everyone to see. 

Well, that and the smuggling. 

Lotor looks up with all the enthusiasm of a middle-aged secretary from the Fifties that got disturbed while filing her nails. “My favorite Fed. What do you want from me this time?” 

“We've lost something,” Lance says, diving right in. They're long past the point at which he tries to lull Lotor into doing him favors. That won't work. Lotor works under one condition, and one condition only: if there's something in it for him. “And I want you to help me find it.” 

And hey, sure enough, Lotor narrows his eyes at him. “What's in it for me?” 

Lance leans back with his elbows against the bar and smirks. He came prepared, of course he did. He made a few phone calls before he headed here. Or, more to the point, he had Keith make a few phone calls – intergalactic ones. Same difference. “My partner and I get along well with Princess Allura. The crystal is an important bargaining chip. If you help us, and we'll let her know, that could go a long way to talk her into reinstating your Altean citizenship. Maybe you could go home.” 

“I don't want to go home,” says Lotor, with a sneer, but the sudden look of longing in his eyes tells another story. 

Even though it isn't necessary – he's got valid proof from past missions that Lotor has him on speed dial – Lance reaches into his wallet and slides a business card across the shiny surface of the bar, with one finger, slowly, until it bumps Lotor's arm. “Call me if you change your mind, and we'll make some arrangements.” 

 

***

 

The intergalactic war that made the Alteans and the Galra mortal enemies started, as wars sometimes do, when one ruler lost his mind and had another ruler murdered. The murderer, in this case, was Zarkon, Lotor's father. The murder victim was Alfor, the Altean king. He left behind a mourning planet, and a now orphaned young daughter who loved her father very much. Allura is technically too young to rule her people, and so she's not yet queen. She's a princess and the head of a council that doesn't always follow her recommendations, but does so more often than not. 

Perhaps understandably, Lotor, carrying both Galran and Altean heritage and having been raised on Altea, prefers to think of himself as the latter. Perhaps also understandably, Allura isn't all that keen on having the illegitimate son of the man who killed her father saunter around on her home world. That's been a frequent point of discontent between the two of them, and a bit of a political powder keg in a wider sense. Under a few criteria – involving merits gained in battle and blood honor, because, Galra – Lotor could rise to be Zarkon's only heir. No one, Lotor included, actually wants that. 

It still doesn't make her any more fond of him. 

 

*** 

 

Lotor doesn't call. He sends a text. 

“There,” Lance says, throwing the phone at Keith, who catches it with a displeased squeak. Shame, Lance was rather hoping he'd get him in the temple. “Told you he'd bite.” 

Keith eyes the phone, squinting at the message, and scrubs a hand down his face. “So I guess it's on me now to get this show on the road.” 

He picks up the phone to set up a conference call for that afternoon, or whatever time the princess will be able to make time for them. Probably soon though – she _is_ rather fond of Keith, Lance wasn't lying about that. They wait for a call back from the communications department, and then they trek upstairs to one of the conference rooms, all outfitted with large screens and technology that's definitely not human-made. 

They sit down opposite the large screen just in time to see it flicker to life. Allura smiles politely at Lance, then fondly at Keith. Playing favorites, as always. And since he's already taking second place here, might as well be the bearer of news that’s good for Altea but not so great for Allura personally. 

“Honored by your presence, princess,” he starts, as is protocol, even though they're not meeting in person. Then he cuts right to the chase. “Lotor agreed to help, in exchange for being granted Altean citizenship. As we talked about. Uh, Ma'am. Your majesty.” 

Keith elbows him in the ribs, waits for Lance to get done yelping and glaring before he addresses Allura himself. “We know he's got deep ties with the international black market. We only resort to this measure because we believe it's the quickest way to get the crystal into your hands, where it belongs, your majesty.” 

Much smoother, Lance will give him that. Nevertheless, she frowns. “And you're really sure you can't secure the crystal without his help?” 

Keith shrugs. “We could, eventually. But we wouldn't catch this crystal and it'd involve a lot more time, we'd have to get someone undercover in the black market and wait for them to get established, for people to trust them, and then maybe after a few months we could prepare an extract– “

“Stop.” Allura grimaces, and Lance is pretty sure the fact that she doesn't wince as well is only owed to her royal composure. “I get it. Time we don't have – I don't have – since the Galra cut us off from our primary power source and my planet needs every crystal, no matter how small, that's offered on the open market.” She turns to Lance, who immediately feels like he's fifteen and has been called to the principal's office. It's funny, she's a bit younger than them, by Altean standards, but so much scarier than anyone else he's ever met – including Iverson. _Especially_ Iverson. “You can tell him I'll get the paperwork ready. As soon as I'm informed of your success, he can start making arrangements to return home.” 

“I'm afraid he'll insist on a bit more than just my word,” Lance says, digging for his phone. He holds it up, hits record. “Can you repeat that? Maybe spice it up with whatever you guys do instead of a pinky swear?” 

Her eyes go wide with confusion at the last two words, the universal translator apparently having met its limits. Keith waves a hand, the gesture dismissive, at Lance. “Just repeat what you just said.” 

That said and done, Allura turns away from the camera, responding to someone out of frame. “I'm afraid I'll have to go,” she says, with an apologetic smile at Keith, now ignoring Lance altogether. They both curtsey by the way of a goodbye, and she looks away again, then holds up a hand towards whoever is rushing her to end then call. “Don't think that'll make me like him any better,” she adds, just as they're about to stand. “Make sure he knows this won't suddenly make us friends. There's still only one Galra I trust.”

Keith smiles back at her, a little secretive, and _man_ at some point Lance will have to grow a pair and ask him about the story of how he got on such good terms with the princess. He can't look it up in the files, those are sealed, and he's always been too curious for his own good.

 

***

 

Even within Oversight, not all information flows freely. This is not unusual, from what Lance has learned, for the inner workings of an intelligence organization. Spies are suspicious by nature. Distrust is in the job description, and the higher one climbs on the ladder, the more secrets they have to protect. Here's one secret that only a handful of people, earthling or alien, are in on: 

Lance's partner is not human. Not entirely, anyway. He had a bit more luck in the genetic shuffle than Lotor did, not sporting an obvious purple complexion, but Keith is part Galra. His mother was one of the first Galrans who landed on Earth, and the very first to defect. It's a rather heartwarming story, full of drama and pain and the healing power of love. Not a happy one, though, because the Galra found them about a decade into the ever after, huddled up in a shack in the desert not far from the initial invasion, and after exacting the seemingly universal punishment for treason, Keith landed in the foster system. 

That's where his trust issues and sunny personality stem from, Lance suspects. 

 

***

 

It takes Lance another couple text messages and two days later, they're all meeting at a private airport just outside the city lines and waiting for an express trip to Europe on one Oversight’s shiny toys: a plane that looks futuristic and otherworldly, even for an agent who works with alien artifacts on the daily, and that will go into stealth just as soon as they leave the agency’s airport. _They_ encompasses Lance, Keith, two analysts that are supposed to run backup on their retrieval mission – Lance knows Hunk from having been at the academy at the same time, but the other, Pidge, he hasn't worked with yet – and, of course, the star of the show. At least that's how he'll see it, even though he won't have much of a purpose during the actual mission. But he insisted on coming along, and Lance did feel generous. No one will care about the costs for an extra hotel room if they do manage to secure the crystal based on his intel. 

Lotor struts onto the runway in a three-piece-suit and a knee-length pea coat, all kept in somber gray. He uses a mirror image when he ventures out the of the club, to blend in, and this is probably his idea of being subtle and inauspicious. It occurs to Lance that he's never seen him wear that many clothes at once. It's a good look. Which is an opinion Lance will carefully keep to himself. 

“All business, I see,” he says when he comes up to greet him. 

“I do own clothes that cover more than my crotch,” Lotor quips back, his eyes slowly wandering up and down Lance's body, even though Lance is wearing the same regular jeans and T-shirt combo he almost always wears, and nothing at all seductive or scandalous. 

Lance clears his throat. He's not going to blush. “Please promise me you really do have a lead on the crystal,” he says instead. “And we're not just bankrolling your summer vacation.” 

“If I were out to make you pay for my vacation, I'd angle for more than a weekend trip to Rome,” Lotor says, finally looking Lance in the eye. The effect of _that_ is almost worse. “The sale is going to happen. I'm not lying to you. How about your side of the deal?” 

Lance pulls up the video file from their chat with the princess up on his phone and holds it up so Lotor can see the screen. “She promised. If we're successful and bring her the crystal, you'll officially be Altean again.” 

He hits play, and Lotor watches the video in full, then nods, and starts for the plane. “Good. Off we go, then.” 

Lance marches after him, trying to keep up with his long strides, and only slows down when he passes Hunk and Pidge, giggling to themselves, and Keith, whose eyes are glinting with an unusual amount of mischief. 

Maybe he did blush, then. Wonderful. This little field expedition is going to be so much fun. For the others, mostly, and at his expense. 

 

***

 

The use of alien technology used to be strictly forbidden. Of course that's a little bit like trying to catch ants with a flyswatter: it’s tedious, the equipment is hilariously ineffective, there's more pouring through the cracks than one could ever hope to keep inside, and the in the end the entire exercise is rather futile. That's part of the reason why Oversight eventually treated itself to a research and development department that would make both Apple and NASA bawl with jealousy. In fact, rumor has it that they're by far the most well-functioning part of the whole agency. 

Not the kind of thing one should ever mention in front of Iverson. 

But that's how their cars and planes and even some of their buildings have stealth modes. That's how they'd managed to build the kind of plane that looks altogether more like a miniature spaceship and shortens overseas trips to two and a half hours. And that's how they've come by some other fun toys, like communication and surveillance technology the size of a flea and utterly undetectable unless the other side knows exactly what they're looking for, and where. 

 

***

 

They’re at another hotel, although this one is way across the pond, fancier while also being classier, and Lance doesn't try to hide his glee when they check in for the next two days. That's the timeframe and location Lotor gave them. It's a bit vague, but gift horses and all that. Besides, there are worse places to get stuck in for couple days, waiting for a transaction to take place. Much, much worse. Lance spends about fifteen minutes cooing about the comfortable four-poster-bed and fluffy European comforters, wondering out loud about the thread count of the sheets, before he starts to get antsy. Eager. Professional. 

He marches into the next room, the one with convenient view of the delivery entrance, where the tech squad resides, and flops down cross-legged on one _their_ four-poster-beds. “Any news?” 

Pidge pushes the glasses further up her nose. “We have a Drothalian ship in orbit. They consider Altean crystals to be a rare sacrifice to their gods, and we've set the scanners to throw an alarm if we detect any Drothalian energy signatures within the city.”

“Good work,” Lance says, nodding his approval, and jumps back to his feet. Pidge eyes him all the way to the door, the look on her face saying she might be contemplating what kind of drug he either took or _forgot_ to take, but she doesn't comment on that. 

He doesn't go back to his own room, not quite in the mood to get in an argument with Keith solely because they're both wound tight and that's what inevitably happens, so he wanders downstairs to casually stroll through the lobby, planting a few of those neat alien-tech bugs, then checks out the cafeteria and the pool for no specific purpose at all. It's gotten dark out, but the area is dipped in atmospheric, dim light. He casts a look around, gives a quick thought to maybe getting rid of some of his nervous energy with a quickie in one of the undoubtedly exquisite and elegant restrooms. That's when he sees Lotor, sitting by the pool in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, his legs dangling off the edge. His long hair is done up in a loose ponytail, and Lance wonders whether the mirror image he uses to hide his purple skin, his pointy ears, at least leaves that untouched. He's beautiful, even more so than when he dolls himself up for whatever he does in that bar: a simple, effortless kind of beauty. 

“I know it's part and parcel for your job to watch people,” Lotor says, suddenly and without turning around. “But may I ask for the courtesy, while we're here, to either watch me openly or not at all?” 

Lance walks over to him, shrugging, and peels his shirt over his head. He's only wearing boxers, didn't think to pack swim wear since he's here to work and because Keith would have had let him live that one down. They're clean and nice enough, though it won't make a difference in the weak light. He doesn't take the time to head to the changing room, strips down right then and there.

“Just here for the view,” he says as he sits down on the edge of a connecting pool, off-center, and leans back with a smirk. 

Lotor groans at the cheap double entendre, but he looks up and his gaze rakes over Lance's body much like it did at the airport, except now there's actually something to see. He hefts an eyebrow. “It's unprofessional to screw your informants, agent.” 

“Who said anything about screwing?” Lance asks, shrugging his shoulders. “All we're doing is sitting here, outside, looking at the stars and enjoying the water.” 

The smile Lotor gives him is much quieter, seems much more honest, than anything he'd given him before. “Let me rephrase. Isn't it unprofessional to _want_ to screw your informants?” 

“As long as I don't endanger the mission, I can do what I want” he says and leans further back, deeper into Lotor's space. “Think about anyone I want, screw anyone I want.”

That's only true for those novels from the previous century, dark alleys and easy seduction, but Lotor won't know that. Lance looks at him wide-eyed, all fake wounded innocence, and something dark and hungry swirls in his belly when that _works_ , when Lotor's gaze slides to his mouth, when he licks his lips and only manages to look back up to meet Lance's eyes after a quiet intake of breath. “Your species has an interesting take on spywork.” 

“My species has an interesting take on a lot of things,” he replies, and this time he plays it straight, no grin or wink, just lets the implication hang in the air all on its own. 

Lotor swings his legs around so he's beside Lance, then slides down to stand in the waist-high water. He steps between Lance's legs, both hands clasped behind his own back, military style, his expression unreadable. Might be that Lance is the spy, but Lotor is better at this game – playing pretend, covering his intentions, using someone's attraction against them – and for a moment he fears that's all this was, that he's fallen for a ruse. Embarrassment crawls its way up the back of his neck, a quip on his lips, an excuse to flee the scene and pretend this never happened... 

He doesn't expect Lotor to reach out and tip his chin up, or to lean down and kiss him. It's not much of a kiss – a taste, a promise, if that. A confirmation, maybe, or just the next move in a much longer play than Lance ever realized. 

“I think I might miss you,” Lotor says as he pulls back, brushing his thumb over Lance's chin. “When I leave.” 

 

***

 

They sleep in shifts, and of course luck would have it that the bugs in the lobby ping just when it's Lance's turn to head off to dreamland. He's shaken awake rather rudely by Keith, and plops into consciousness with a couple muttered curses, rubbing his eyes. 

“Wha's goin' on?” he slurs, swallowing hard a few times. 

Keith disappears from view for a few seconds, then returns with Lance's jeans and jacket. Helpful. How out of character. “The bugs in the lobby pinged. We have four Drothalians, two Blixien merchants, and five Galra. It's gonna be a party.” 

“Fuck,” mutters Lance. That either means they have more than one item, or they plan to let them bid and have one potential customer walk away disappointed. Of course nothing could go wrong with _that_. “Maybe the Blixien are just a royal couple out for a spa day?”

He neither expects nor gets an answer to that, dresses quickly and follows Keith one room over, in order to review the movements of their suspects. The Galra do indeed repeat their behavior from the previous week, hanging around the delivery entrance, complete with a definitely-totally-inconspicuous black van, but there appear to be rooms booked for the other two groups. 

Lance massages the bridge of his nose with two fingers. That's not a bad thing; this is what they were hoping for. A confrontation during the hand off would be a disaster waiting to happen. Breaking up a transaction that involves three different alien races, all with their own strong motives – greed for the Galra and the Blixien, religion for the Drothalians – is almost guaranteed to end in a shootout. With no reason to have to catch anyone in the act for arrests or convictions, they're much better off letting the crystal switch hands, and then take it off whoever bought it. There might still be a ruckus, but it might be much less tense, and everyone involved _should_ be aware that black market items that are traded on Earth can be confiscated without preamble. He's still nervous as he follows the differently colored dots for the Blixien and the Dothralians on Pidge's screen move about the hotel, and then, one after the other, gather outside and near the delivery entrance. 

He’s still nervous when he snatches a stealth screen from their equipment, steps out on the balcony to watch the whole transaction in real time, and then has to let them all walk their separate ways after, unchecked. In order to get the crystal, they'll have to let the Galran smugglers get away, but there's little by the way of effective prosecution of Galran crime on Earth anyway. Worst case, they'd get called off planet and replaced within the month. The point is getting the crystal. 

Keith joins him after a few moments, and they both breathe a sigh of relief when, after some heated but ultimately peaceful arguments, the Drothalians walk away with their spoils. A thriving church's pockets have always been deeper than anyone else's, and apparently that holds true on other planets as well. Lance doesn't mind; it means all that's left to do is show up in their room and do some confiscating. 

 

***

 

Of course it falls to Lance to collect his informant, and he's not particularly surprised when Lotor doesn't answer the door in his room. He looks for him at the pool next, with a strange but not all that unpleasant tingle down his spine – unsuccessfully. Same goes for the cafeteria, the garden, and the gift shop, and doesn't seem to have checked in for a spa treatment on Uncle Sam's dime either. His calls go to voicemail. Lance retraces his steps, checks along the same route again, and then uses his gear to break into Lotor's room. 

It's empty. The bed is made, meticulously, and Lance finds a cell phone propped up on the fluffy white pillow. He swipes, and yep – there are his missed calls. Next to it is a note, scribbled on the back of a hotel flyer. Lance picks the flyer up, turns it over in his hands, and reads the words left for him in shoddy, almost undecipherable handwriting. 

_I did mean it, Fed. I'll miss you. Maybe we'll see each other again, it's a small world after all and I would like to kiss you again, if you'd still let me. Tell the princess thanks from me. I did consider going home, but I'm not even sure that's Altea anymore. I just know it's not New York, hasn't been for a long time, and I do thank you for letting me hitch a ride to greener pastures._

Lance reads it twice, and a third time, then balls it up and throws it in the trash by the bedside table. No need to submit _that_ into evidence and give Keith more ammunition. Maybe he should feel betrayed, or used, but neither's the case. He huffs a laugh. Never trust a hustler. And Lotor's right; it _is_ a small world, and when they do meet again Lance will decide whether to arrest him on mere principle, yell at him for much the same reasons, or let himself be kissed a lot more.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


End file.
